


Coded

by A_Random_NPC



Series: Voidsinger [16]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29766840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Random_NPC/pseuds/A_Random_NPC
Summary: Sinnlyra Voidsinger has been accepted as a front for the black market through the Uncrowned and begins her training.
Series: Voidsinger [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796173
Kudos: 1





	Coded

Sinnlyra eyed the portal that spun lazily before her with suspicion as her companions threw boxes and bags of supplies through it. The destination wasn't one she recognized, though that was to be expected. Fog covered a rocky mountaintop obscuring most of the view, though several scrubby pines that were twisted and bent from the wind faded in and out of sight in the mist. Multiple shaggy goats had been startled into flight as goods began crashing through the portal, their alarmed bleats drifting faintly through the connection. Madam Goya watched her newest recruit as closely as she watched the portal, her face expressionless as she hid her hands in the sleeves of her dress.

"Your cover will be that you decided to make an impromptu trip to Pandaria in order to study with the silk masters in the Valley of the Four Winds. This will align with what you will learn while you are gone." The severe Pandaren gestured to the silent guard at her back, prompting him to hand Lyra a large leather bound sketchbook and a tin full of colored pencils. Somehow Lyra wasn't surprised to see that they were from her favorite maker in Stormwind. "You will be given some time to make the ruse seem realistic with excursions into the Valley to allow you to sketch as you see fit. Draw and write nothing of the location where you will be training. That is to remain a secret."

"Yes, Madam." Lyra replied softly, taking the sketchbook and pencils with a nod of thanks. The large blood elf beside her gestured for her to pass them to him, tucking them into a bag at his feet. He grunted as he heaved it through the portal, his strong arms making light of the work. Oristin Sunstriker had always been a rather brawny academic, Lyra observed as she watched him wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead. The night elf beside him did the same, his tiny fae dragon companion hissing at him to be careful as he lobbed a crate through the portal. It landed with an audible crash across the impossible distance the portal spanned, making Lyra wince and hope nothing had been damaged. It had sounded as if there was an entire arsenal inside of it.

"We will see you in several weeks, Mistress Voidsinger." The Madam sniffed when Lyra bowed to her, promising she would do her best. One of her firm paws caught Lyra's arm, giving her a final stern look. "This is a risky venture. Heed your trainers and do not disappoint me."

"That's all of it. Let's go." Oristin's baritone cut through any lingering doubts Lyra had about the decision she had made to join the Uncrowned. She glanced around the Hall of Shadows one last time, catching a final glimpse of Tyr and Sev where they stood watching her, blowing them both a kiss. Without waiting for a response, she turned back to the portal and stepped through, Oristin and the night elf named Flame following right on her heels. There was the customary moment of disorientation as the magic spat her out onto unfamiliar land, making her stutter step before catching herself. She swallowed hard as she fought off the brief bout of motion sickness that always seemed to plague her with portal travel, her nausea fading only to be replaced with shivering as her body tried to acclimate to the damp air that enveloped her. Remembering the men following her, she picked her way around the mass of bags, boxes, and crates scattered across the landing area to give them space. Oristin turned down the sleeves on his shirt, seemingly unperturbed by the change in climate. Flicker immediately cheeped with dismay at the colder air as Flame stepped through the portal, grumpily climbing into his friend's shirt to get out of the chill. His little head popped out from under the worn collar as the man chuckled, settling him so he wouldn't slip from his new, warmer perch. With one final gurgle, the portal spun away into nothingness, leaving them seemingly alone in a clearing dominated by the scrub pines and a large wooden building tucked between two rocky outcroppings. Lyra was surprised to see several shaggy horses grazing alongside the goats she had spied earlier, all of them seemingly unbothered by the apparition of people in their midst. She rubbed her arms, trying to warm herself as she took in her surroundings, curious despite her anxiety. The four sturdy wooden ramps that led to large, closed sliding doors confused her for a moment before Oristin answered her unspoken question.

"Former black market location and warehouse. It's been converted into a training location for we less than savory folks. Say hello to home for the next few weeks." He slung two of the bags over his shoulders, giving her a tiny smile that was anything but reassuring, the light filtering through the mist making his tan look sallow. Flame did the same, nodding towards two smaller bags that had landed against a cracked crate. Eager to prove her worth, Lyra picked them up and smiled when she felt their light weight.

"Your clothes for your stay here." Flame drawled, his dragon companion croaking when he was jostled by his friend's movement. "You're pretty as a picture in your fancy duds, but you'll be dressin' like us while you're here." HIs muscles strained under the bandages that wound up his arms from the cuts she had given him earlier, though he showed no sign of being in pain. The cloth sparkled in her magical sight when she inspected the bandages, spells for purification, healing, and tranquility woven deeply into the linen. The kaldorei seemed cheerful enough as the quartet began walking toward the building, but the occasional hiss from Flicker pricked her conscious about harming him. Sternly, she reminded herself that it was necessary to prove her worth to the leader of the Uncrowned. Her involuntary sigh attracted the attention of the blood elf at her side, the glance he leveled her way loaded with curiosity.

"It seems odd that a seemingly respectable academic such as yourself is involved with the Uncrowned." Lyra's voice was pert when she noticed his look. Oristin chuckled, his stern brow relaxing somewhat as he considered her. He was a strapping man, his well-muscled arms and shoulders and ease carrying the heavy bags indicating that he was used to long hours of manual labor. The golden highlights in his dark brunette hair and chinstrap beard were becoming, them and his tanned skin showing that he spent a lot of time in strong sunlight. It made her wonder at his frequent absences from his half of their shared townhome. Glancing over his clothing showed wear at his knees and on the toes of his boots, making her wonder if he spent a lot of time kneeling on rough terrain, just as the wear on the inner thighs and seat of his pants showed that he rode frequently. The threadbare seams across the shoulders of his shirt and cloth vest amused her, reminding her of the other men in her life that were similarly hard on their clothing. It's like they gnaw at the seams in their spare time, she laughed inwardly to herself.

"The same could be said of your, though let's not play coy. We both know the black market provides ample opportunities for us both." Oristin grinned down at her, his teeth bright against his sun darkened skin. A goat raised its head at the sound of his voice, its bleat echoing slightly through the mist. Lyra's fingers itched to tough its long, soft looking fur, wondering if it could be used to spin thread. "There are more academics involved with the shady side of life than you might think, Mistress."

"Touché, but please, call me Lyra." She replied, offering him a small smile of her own. The scent of pine drifted over them, bright and crisp despite the heavy fog. She took a moment to transfer her contemplation to their other companion, who had been listening to their exchange. The kaldorei was no less muscled than his sin'dorei friend, though his shoulders weren't quite as broad in comparison. Long lilac hair was tied up in a sloppy bun at the top of his head, revealing a mass of scars and dark purple tattoos across his face and neck. What he lacked in eyebrows he made up for in ink, Lyra thought, though the wicked glint in his red and gold eyes could rival Tyr's for mischief. There was sly interest in his gaze as he studied her in return, the cheeky wink he tipped her way giving him a carelessly flirtatious air that did nothing for her. He pointed first to himself, then his draconic companion with a hand that was just as scarred as his chiseled face.

"Name's Syvanel Goresteel, but you can call me Van. This here's Flicker. Don't mind him, he'll come around." Flicker hissed, denying that he'd like the woman who hurt his friend from his safe perch in Van's shirt. "Code name's Flame, which is dumb as hell." Lyra politely laughed at the gripe, hearing the long suffering exasperation behind it. He was clearly younger than herself and their ruddy companion, though it was difficult to say by how much. The scars that riddled his face and body made him look much older than he apparently was. 

"Flicker chose and likes it, that's what matters." Oristin's stage whisper was meant to be heard by the group, making Lyra giggle. She found herself relaxing slightly in their presence, though part of her was still balanced on a knife's edge at being left alone in a new place with complete strangers. It was a leap of faith, one she was unsure she would survive. The dragon's fluffy antenna flicked, drawing her attention back to him, the tips of the multi-colored appendages tickling the underside of Van's goateed chin. Even in the fog, his scales shone with all the colors of the rainbow.

"Flicker a good friend to Van." His tiny, hissing voice resoundingly clear despite being no more than a peep. His eyes shone like chips of obsidian as they peered over the shirt collar at Lyra, his antenna slicking back along his head to show his distrust of her. "Van save Flicker from nasty trick. Flicker does not like nasty tricks."

"Found 'im when he was no more than a hatchling. Little tyke was being pestered by spriggan. Ended up freeing him from one of their traps and he took a shine to me, didn't ya fella?" Lyra was touched to see the large man tip his head down to place a kiss on the tiny dragon's head. Flicker rubbed his cheek against Van's chin to return the gesture of affection before tucking himself back into the warm hollow he had made for himself. It seemed their friendship was one of long standing, despite the oddness of it.

"Best friend." Flicker agreed, his tone taking on a sly cast as he added, "Safe with friend, even if a dumb one."

"Hey now-" Syvanel protested as Flicker giggled and ducked his head into his shirt to hide from his friend's mock outrage. Lyra laughed outright, startled that the dragon had a sense of humor. Oristin merely smiled, his green eyes lighting on one of the doors that had rolled open at the sound of their approach. A large Pandaren man stood there with his arms crossed over his ample stomach, his face and eyes shaded by a massive hat made of bamboo slats. Lyra stifled a small gasp when she caught sight of the resplendent silk overcoat he wore, her heart filled with yearning for the ability to create something as beautiful. Intricate embroideries cascaded down the light pink silk in more colors than she could name, the lovely scene of cranes flying over a lotus pond at sunset astounding even at a distance. It was the work of a true master, and she hoped she would be given an opportunity to inspect it more closely.

"You are late, Professor." The new man's voice boomed like thunder across the clearing, silencing them all as he pointed an accusatory finger toward Oristin. His voice startled several of the animals grazing in the clearing, sending the goats scampering toward the safety of the rocky outcroppings where they could hide. His red and white fur was streaked with grey, revealing his age, though the weathered blue eyes tucked behind a broken butterfly mask of fur were still as sharp as daggers. A long braid hung down his back tied with an intricately embroidered bow made of silk that matched his coat. Bushy brows furrowed at Lyra before flicking back to the blood elf, his harrumphing complaints just as loud as his greeting. "You left me here alone with her for hours."

"Couldn't be helped, old paw." Oristin replied, tossing one of the bags he carried at the Pandaren. He caught it with a grunt and dropped it inside the door, bracing himself to catch the second one that was tossed his way. Lyra watched the coat sparkle with enchantments against wear, dirt, and tearing, relieved such magnificent work wouldn't be damaged. "You know how the Madam gets sometimes. Everything on her time, no ours. Our fourth is here already though? I didn't expect her to get here until nightfall."

"She was sent back from the Vale early," was the stern, yet exasperated reply emphasized by a thump of a bag dropped from nimble paws. "She wants to talk to you about the swords you gave her." Oristin nodded, gesturing for Lyra to drop the bags she carried inside the door. Syvanel chuckled as brushed passed her, plopping the load he carried beside the others before heading back to their landing to grab more. Once again she found herself on the receiving end of his flirtatious gaze, his blood red eye flashing with mischief as he leaned toward her.

"Whatever you do, don't piss her off. You'll find yourself earless, else." He tapped his own missing ear, his dimpled grin wicked enough that she couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. Flicker cheeped in agreement, his antenna slicked back as far as they could go.

"She's scary." The tiny voice whispered, but brightened again as he cocked his head to the side. "But gives good scratches. Scary friend can be good friend too." Before Lyra could ask who they were referring to, there was a loud thump as a sword embedded itself deeply into the wooden floor before her. She yelped, drawing her skirts back as another followed, both blades quivering from the impact. Oristin and the Pandaren heaved matching sighs as a woman leapt from the loft overhead, landing without a sound before them, her angular face twisted into a fearsome scowl. Lyra slowly lowered her skirts, glad it was Oristin on the receiving end of such a look, not her.

"These hunks of tin are useless, Professor." The woman's lilting alto was soft, but carried with the strength of a field commander calling his troops to battle. "You call them Titan artifacts? They're junk." The newcomer's body practically dripped with the casual grace of someone trained to move fluidly and without sound, making Lyra feel like a complete clod beside her. Despite the coolness of the mountain air, she was dressed in a midriff baring shirt, baggy pants, and heeled combat boots. It came as a shock to Lyra when she realized the woman was another void elf, her closely cropped hair revealing a mass of short tentacles that swirled with magical signatures in all colors of the rainbow. The stranger jerked her chin up at Oristin in challenge, who said nothing as he attempted to pull the swords out of the wooden floor. Despite his strength, they refused to budge.

"Now Cea-" he grunted as he tugged ineffectually at one of the swords with both hands. The woman vanished in a puff of shadow magic, manifesting behind him with her hand over his mouth and a dagger to his throat. Lyra watched the exchange completely fascinated despite the thrill of fear she felt being in the presence of someone who oozed confidence and danger. Unlike Sev's cold and brusque demeanor, this woman was deadly grace in humanoid form, though both of them made her instincts scream "predator." The stranger flicked her eyes towards Lyra, making the Void whispers in her mind start roaring for her to go on the defensive. Oristin waited patiently while the woman assessed her from head to toe, completely unfazed by the knife at his throat. If anything, Lyra realized, there was a faint blush rising in his cheeks.

"That one can pull my real name out of my corpse since she's so good at making them." There was sultry anger in the woman's hiss, the tentacles in her hair cascading with thick bands of shadow magic. "Crétin they named me, so Crétin I am. Do not forget." The knife at Oristin's throat vanished into a sheath on her thigh, though she took a moment to give him a rather intimate kiss before reaching around him and effortlessly yanking the swords out of the floor. "And stop acting like you're a weakling, Oris. No one's impressed." He shrugged, spinning the swords in his hands before hooking them both to his belt, gesturing to the woman beside him.

"Let's get the rest of the gear inside before we do introductions, shall we? Crétin-" he emphasized her name in a drawl that could match Van's, "You and I will have words about these 'hunks of tin' later." The woman scoffed and lightly sprinted out the door, adroitly dodging Van as he came in with a crate balanced on one shoulder. Flicker slid from his shirt and drifted upward towards the loft where he would be out of the way, complaining about being jostled.

"She's in a mood." Syvanel grunted as he laid the crate off to one side. The Pandaren came in bearing another crate in a similar manner, placing it reverently to the side with an affectionate pat. It drew Lyra's attention to the dimly lit corner where he stood, making her realize for the first time what was set up there, hidden in the shadows.

It was a loom, and what was more, it was one of the most beautiful and professional looking looms she had ever seen. She immediately longed to go over and inspect it, but resisted, reluctantly following the rest of the group outside to bring in the remaining supplies. Crétin carried two large bags in her arms, her almond shaped eyes narrowing as they passed one another. There was something otherworldly about her gaze, though Lyra returned it coolly, unwilling to show fear to someone she was willing to bet would be her most punishing teacher. She accepted a box that was handed to her by Oristin, grimacing when she realized her velvet dress was going to be destroyed by more than just blood stains by the end of the day. It was a shame, since it was one of her more comfortable mourning dresses.

"Everyone works here, princess." Crétin's voice was a whip crack through the foggy air, startling one of the horses that grazed by the building into a nervous trot away from her. "Even you." Lyra bristled, displeased by the insinuation that she was lazy.

"Don't mind her. She's a wicked creature, though she's turned out many good rogues over the years." Oristin muttered to her as he carried a larger crate to their temporary home. She followed him mutely as Syvanel jogged passed them to grab the remaining goods. "She'll come around. You'll just have to work hard to impress her."

"She isn't wrong. I am not used to manual labor so much." Lyra replied softly as they climbed one of the ramps together. Oristin dropped his burden and appraised her as she set the box she carried on top of it, rubbing his beard. She stood and brushed flecks of dried herbs that had fallen from the box onto her dress away, allowing him to inspect her.

"True. There's some muscle there from what little training you have received. Void and fel have a tendency to eat away at people's bodies, so it isn't surprising you're on the thinner side. We'll get you in shape, don't worry." Flicker darted overhead, croaking a warning as Crétin slammed the sliding door shut after Van entered with the final load, sweat glistening at his brow. The rogue waited until he dropped his crate before pulling him down and giving him a hard kiss on his scarred mouth. Oristin watched them, amused, before glancing over to gauge Lyra's reaction. She shrugged and offered him a small rueful smile to indicate that she didn't care. "It'll just be the five of us, six if you could Flicker, which you should. He's a clever little beastie when it comes to herbs." 

Given what she had seen from the creature, Lyra didn't doubt it. Reflexively, she began a series of stretches for her hands, wrists, and arms as she looked around her new temporary home. The ramps and flooring were sturdy underfoot, built to withstand carts being driven across them with ease. Despite the weather worn look of the place, it was clearly well maintained. Material packed between the irregularly shaped wooden beams kept the weather out while maintaining the warmth inside. A potbellied iron stove warmed the entire building, the ceramic tiles under and behind it helping to radiate the heat from the fire that burned merrily inside its cavernous interior. The Pandaren had busied himself with feeding the flames with large chunks of wood with paws that seemed impervious to the heat. Crétin had joined Syvanel in a corner and was rubbing Flicker's brow ridges as they spoke quietly so no one could overhear them. While the main floor was mostly clear besides several work benches, a sectioned off sleeping area, and the corner with the loom, the loft overhead held crates, barrels, and stacks of hay and straw for the animals outside. Tapestries adorned the walls, helping keep any drafts from seeping inside. The sturdy wooden doors were all sealed with heavy steel straps and bars, strong protection from potential invaders and the elements. The entire place blazed in her magical sight with spells for all purposes, though the ones for fireproofing, luck, concealment, and peace shone the brightest. There was a clank as the door of the stove was closed, the Pandaren turning to survey the group before speaking again.

"And thus, our merry band of misfits is together again." His voice was gruff with emotion, though soft joy suffused his face. He gathered several cushions from a pile behind him, tossing them in a circle on the floor, gesturing for Lyra and Oristin to sit. She complied, hearing the straw stuffing crackle beneath her as she settled herself into a comfortable position on a red cushion decorated with black embroidery. A flash of chagrin struck her when she noticed that the blood stains in her skirt had set, knowing that it would be impossible to remove them now. "Crétin, Van, come join us a moment so that we may speak of what is to come." He waited patiently until everyone else was seated before dropping into a tailor's seat himself with an ease that spoke of long practice. He took a moment to arrange his coat to display the embroidery to its best advantage, another movement that seemed habitual rather than deliberate.

"First, we shall have introductions. As host, I will begin since you are now in my home. My name is Master Liusang Silkstrand, a weaver, tailor, and storyteller with cloth." Lyra's eyes widened when she recognized his name, making him smile and bow to her from his seat. She returned the gesture respectfully, having heard of him from others in their shared profession. He was one of the great silk masters of Pandaria, a creator very few gained an audience with, let alone were privileged enough to have custom with outside of certain circles. There were also rumors that he was also a Loremaster of a kind, a rumor he confirmed when he added, "I am a keeper of the secret language of woven cloth, a tradition that has been handed down for generations by my people. A language that, I understand, I am to teach you."

"You honor me." Lyra replied softly, bowing again, meaning it sincerely. She and Alv had read a book about the history of Pandaria during one of their days together at the Redoubt. The mogu had done everything they could to keep the Pandaren ignorant to maintain control of them during the long years they kept them enslaved. Alv had speculated that, despite the slavers banning the Pandaren from reading, writing, and speaking any tongue besides the mogu language that they had adapted somehow in order to keep their stories and traditions alive. She longed to tell him that his theory had been correct, but knew it would be a massive breach of trust to reveal it to him. The Pandaren man before her now snorted, his cheerful, bearded face taking on a slightly darker cast as he continued to speak.

"You are an outsider, a woman corrupted by the Void, a power that is currently wreaking havoc across the lands of my people. Did you think that you would be welcomed with open arms, warlock? My patroness insisted that you be taught one of our most closely guarded, ancient secrets that kept my people safe during the long years of slavery at the hands of the mogu." He steepled his fingers together, his eyes sheer ice as they observed her reaction to his words despite his outwardly calm appearance. The others merely watched, seemingly unsurprised by the polite anger he leveled her way.

"We have long watched outsiders run rampant throughout lands, leaving swaths of destruction in their wake. First, the Horde and Alliance bring their pointless war to our shores, awakening the Sha. Then, the Legion destroyed one of our most sacred and ancient temples, decimating our monks, leaving behind fel corruption that still lingers on Kun-Lai Summit. Now, the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, our most sacred lands that were only recently purified, are being invaded by forces of the Black Empire. Yet I am being compelled to train one who plays with such dark forces as a hapless child plays with a maelstrom." HIs brows knitted together as he bared his considerably sharp teeth at her and gave a low warning growl, stunning her. Whatever welcome she had expected, this was not it. Lyra stayed silent, trying not to be offended at his words even as a deep, growing shame began to fill her. In his position she would likely feel the same, especially given the history of his people. Everyone's eyes stayed fixed on her as she nodded silently, acknowledging his anger.

"The Madam says you are a tailor of some skill, but we shall see. Your reputation does precede you somewhat, Sinnlyra Voidsinger. I have inspected your work and found it... Satisfactory." Master Silkstrand continued, smoothing his fingers down his braided mustache. A spark of pink and violet arcane energy began to wind itself through the fingers of his free hand, drawing attention away from his severe face. She didn't recognize the spell he built, but it was impressive he was able to create it without speaking or drawing any runes. Perinth had been able to do the same, she thought with a pang, watching the spark with trepidation. Master Silkstrand gave her a brittle smile, continuing to speak in his harshly polite voice.

"While you are in my charge, you will adhere by my rules. Pandaria is not like the lands you are used to, elf. Here, strong displays of emotions lead to manifestations of the Sha. You will therefore curb your emotions accordingly. You will also not be permitted to draw upon the powers of Void or fel, lest you draw the attention of the invaders to the north. You will be watched closely, as closely as a hawk watches a plains hare, by myself and the others to ensure you adhere to these rules. Misstep, and your body will be found broken at the base of the cliffs. It is more than just your survival at stake here, elf. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Master Silkstrand." Lyra kept her voice soft and even as she replied, though her face was flushed entirely. "I also understand your reluctance and anger at teaching someone who is not Pandaren the closely held secrets of your people. In your position, I would also be angered and fearful of what could result from it, but I can assure you that I will treat your traditions with the reverence and secrecy they deserve." There was an unladylike snort from Crétin as she played with a strand of Syvanel's hair. Oristin continued to say nothing, running his strong hands down the Titan swords he had placed in his lap, careful of the edges. The Pandaren sniffed, flicking his fingers as if to shoo her response away.

"Empty words. The Madam and I have compromised, forming a code that has come to serve the Uncrowned. You will learn that and the method, but not the real language, outsider. But speaking of language..." Master Silkstrand grinned suddenly, his icy eyes flashing with grim purpose as he gestured the hand that held the spell toward her. It struck her throat, numbing her vocal chords after its impact. It startled her so badly that she yelped, or tried to, sinking back onto the cushion when she realized she had failed to produce a single sound. The others watched her intently as she opened her mouth to try to demand an explanation, the purpose of the spell revealing itself to her.

He had taken her voice. The violation felt so similar to how Caemil had stolen her memories that the instinctive need to reach for the Void and destroy him nearly swamped her. Master Silkstrand sat there, smug with the success of his spell as he watched her struggle to control the whispers that raged at her to end his existence. Crétin watched intently as Lyra's scar cracked harshly across her face and chest in response to her anger, a knife suddenly appearing in her hand. Flicker hissed form his perch on Syvanel's shoulder, though the night elf appeared more amused than concerned by the situation. Oristin merely watched, his face impassive, though there was a slight whitening of his knuckles around the battered hilts of the swords in his lap. Taking a few breaths, Lyra began to force herself to calm down, not wanting to violate the rules that had been imposed on her mere moments before by her trainers. There was a reason for his, she reminded herself firmly, ignoring the whispers that screamed at her to lash out and rend their faces. Inch by inch, her scar receded back under her hair as she calmed, though the rogues around her didn't lose a hint of their alertness.

"Your control is decent, but you need work to shield your emotions." Crétin said curtly, sheathing the knife once she saw Lyra gain full control of her emotions. "This forced silence serves several purposes. For one, I don't have to listen to your incessant prattle, and two, you'll be forced to rely on the codes we're teaching you to speak. Immersing you in these forms of communication will force you to learn them faster out of sheer necessity." She ran a hand through her cropped hair, her tentacles writhing out of the way of her hands. "We need to work on that scar of yours. It's a hell of a tell."

Lyra took another deep breath and blew it out, nodding slowly. It made sense why they took her voice, though she hated it. Had they given her a warning she would have agreed to be placed under a forced silence for that reason alone. It dawned on her that they had forced it upon her to gauge her reaction, to see if she would abide by their terms during the duration of her training with them. Another test, like the one that morning. Syvanel reached behind him and pulled out a small chalkboard and stylus, handing them both to her with a lopsided grin that boded no good for her time there.

"Use this if you have questions you don't know the words to yet, beautiful." His fingers deliberately brushed against hers when she accepted his offering. His flirtation wouldn't get him very far with her, she thought grimly, though he didn't know it yet.

"Nothing permanent. No paper trails. What you learn, it all stays here." Oristin added severely, tapping his temple. "You'll stay with us until you can do it all without thinking, until the codes are closer to you than the language you learned from the cradle. You might be a front for the Uncrowned, but you're also going to be passing important information. The more accurate your messages, the fewer lives will be at risk." His green eyes narrowed as he watched her write out something on the chalkboard, turning his head to read it more easily. Everyone had been deliberately vague about exactly what she would be learning during her time here, and she wanted answers sooner rather than later.

"Besides the various types of codes and pass phrases, you'll also be learning how to swim and ride," he grinned when she scowled, knowing exactly who had told her of her deficiency in that regard. He ticked off each topic on his fingers as he continued. "Poison identification and use, weapons care, and field medicine. Since you're the front for a safe house, you'll be getting rogues in and out on occasion who need to be kept in one piece long enough for one of our healers to get to them. Same with the riding, swimming, and whatnot. You'll be receiving goods along with me for the Madam on occasion, though you won't be asked to hit the field often. It'll be a rare day when you do, but we want you to be prepared just in case. Most of your time here will be spent learning code using weaving and embroidery with Master Silkstrand. The rest of us will train you around his schedule."

"You'll be learning how to defend yourself without the use of magic too." Crétin purred, stretching in a way that made Lyra's mouth twitch. "I've the same no Void rules as you, little songbird." The use of Caemil's nickname for her made her stiffen with alarm, though the others seemed unperturbed. The other woman favored her with a simpering smirk, her eyes following the shattering of her scar across her face in response to the words. "Oh, did no one tell you? Poor Theories, well... What remained of him... Was my cousin. From what I hear through the whispers, he's furious with you." A faint glint of something malevolent flickered in her eyes as she bared her incisors at Lyra, the grin anything but reassuring. Her whispers shrieked in alarm, their cacophony threatening to overwhelm her. It took a savage twist to push them aside. Master Silkstrand traced some of the embroidery on his coat, watching the display as she fought to resist reacting savagely to the announcement.

"You are in no danger here." The Pandaren made a slashing hand gesture toward Crétin, warning her to back off. The woman smirked at him but complied, draping herself against Syvanel so she could scratch his back. "If you were in danger and your death was warranted, you would not still be sitting here."

"Theories and Fantasy will no longer be a threat soon. Crétin is also not a threat." Oristin said softly, his eyes never leaving Lyra's face as she continued to fight off the waves of fear that had filled her. It took a few moments for his words to sink through her hyperawareness, bringing her back from the brink towards something more humane. Slowly, she transferred her blank stare to him, searching for his expression for any sign that he lied. There was nothing there to indicate that she was anything but safe, his relaxed posture helping her focus.

"Uncrowned takes care of its own." Syvanel drawled, Flicker peeping with agreement from under his chin. There was no sympathy in him, not for her nor for the pair under discussion. "You're one of us now, and they... Well."

"Theories and Fantasy have turned their allegiance to other entities." Crétin crinkled her nose, her ears drooping slightly. Her hand toyed with an evil eye charm that hung from a choker around her neck, the enchantments in it sparkling for a moment before fading. "Their deaths will not be mourned."

Looking around the assembled group made Lyra realize that all of them were skilled liars, thieves, and killers and that they would be molding her to be the same over the next few months. The full impact of what she had gotten herself into hit her like a gut punch, though she accepted the full weight of her decisions in full. She had gotten herself into this with eyes wide open and there was no turning back now. Now was the time for her to place her trust in these strangers that would become her teachers. With a steady hand, she wrote a single word on her chalkboard and showed it to all of them.

"Ready."

Master Silkstrand bowed his head, his tufted ears flicking as Oristin stood and wandered to one of the workbenches that lined the walls. Crétin arched backwards off of her cushion, using her legs to lever herself into a handstand. Keeping her eyes on Lyra, she contorted herself in such a way that her feet were placed lightly on the top of her head. She wiggled a foot at Lyra as if to wave, smirking at her shock before righting herself into a more normal shape.

"It takes years of training to become a contortionist," she crooned as Syvanel snickered at Lyra's expression. "Don't you fret, you won't be expected to reach my level. But you will be flexible enough to satisfy even that Illidari boyfriend of yours by the time I'm done with you." Forgetting she couldn't speak, Lyra bit back a silent retort even as she wondered why the woman practically spat the word 'Illidari'. Crétin laughed and flipped away, nimbly climbing a rope that hung from the loft above. Master Silkstrand levered himself to his feet with a grunt and went to the crate he had placed beside his loom earlier, ignoring everyone in favor of its contents. Oristin tapped Lyra's elbow and offered her a flask covered in condensation.

"Here, drink this." She eyed it dubiously, reaching for her chalkboard to ask him what it was. Seeing her reach, he added quickly, "It's an intelligence potion. You'll be taking one on the hour, every hour when you're awake while you're with us. It would take months, if not years to learn all we need to teach you otherwise." Lyra accepted the proffered flask, tucking it against herself with an elbow as she scribbled out a question. Syvanel clapped Oristin on the shoulder and kissed his cheek as he went to toss a bag up to Crétin in the loft. Lyra was tickled to see the weathered man flush completely scarlet as he huffed, waiting to read her reply.

"It isn't addictive, if that's what you're worried about." Lyra shook her head and showed him her chalkboard. Behind him, Syvanel began tossing supplies up to Crétin, who caught each item adroitly and laid them aside.

"Doesn't the Kirin Tor frown on prolonged use of performance enhancers because of long term detrimental effects?" Oristin read it aloud and gave her a rakish grin that could rival Tyr's. His hand reached automatically to the flask he wore on his own hip, taking a long pull from it before answering her. His eyes flashed a slightly deeper green as he did so, making her wonder at what the flask contained. A faint prickling told her there was some fel there, though barely enough to register.

"We're not the Kirin Tor, and they exaggerate those claims to prevent students from misusing them. Drink up." Lyra sighed and hung the chalkboard and scribe from her belt, uncorking the flask. Still doubtful, she gave it an experimental taste, surprised as the pleasantly herbal flavor that flooded her mouth. It tasted similar to some of the tisanes she favored over tea at times, though the bitter aftertaste made her grimace as she swallowed. Oristin took the empty flask from her, watching her face for a reaction to ensure it was working. For a long moment, nothing happened, making her wonder if he had played a joke on her.

Then it hit her.

She gasped, her mind feeling more clear than it had since before she was corrupted. Her thoughts raced, though she somehow remained completely focused and aware of everything around her. Even the Void whispers in her mind seemed more coherent than normal, forming actual phrases rather than their normal meandering singing and tinkling chimes. Every detail of the interior of the building was taken in, analyzed, and categorized in her mind within seconds. Master Silkstrand caught her look and chortled, his hands dripping with embroidery thread in all shades and hues from the crate at his side. The corner of Oristin's mouth curved up slightly as she turned in place, taking in everything with her newly heightened awareness. Her eyes shining, she turned back to him and nodded, indicating that she was ready for her first lesson.

"Good." He replied simply, settling himself back down onto a cushion while Syvanel and Crétin began good naturedly bickering with one another in the background. Lyra settled beside him, breathless from her eagerness to start learning. "We'll start with basic sign language before the Master starts you on slub weaving."

\------------

The days passed in a blur of drills in various codes, long hours before the loom, and excruciatingly long sessions of physical training that left her completely exhausted and wrung out when she was finally allowed to collapse into her bedroll at night. The rogues made sure she ate and drank more regularly than she had in ages, Syvanel often chiding her that she wasn't eating or drinking enough to help her build muscles. Oristin was a patient, kind instructor who answered all of her questions academically, while Syvanel and Flicker made her lessons memorable with their exuberant demeanors and shockingly in depth knowledge of plants and poisons. Master Silkstrand soon lost his gruff demeanor with her when he realized she had been serious about treating his knowledge and craft reverently, opening up to her as one professional to another. Only Crétin remained aloof, merciless in her sessions with Lyra, pushing her to the very extremes of her abilities whether her body was up to it or not.

"No, no, no! You need to be nimble, light on your feet! Not banging about like a peasant in clogs!" Crétin snapped at Lyra as she was once again thrown face down into the dirt by Syvanel. She sighed silently as she picked herself up from the muddy ground, not bothering to brush the muck from her face and clothing. Crétin flawlessly disarmed the taller, stronger man to demonstrate the move Lyra was supposed to be performing, scowling fiercely the whole time. When she liberated the dagger from his hands she tossed it, sending it clattering across the clearing toward a tall strand of flowers.

"Fetch." She snapped to Syvanel, who rubbed his wrist where the small woman had twisted it, shrugging good naturedly before going to retrieve it. She rounded on Lyra, her blue eyes flashing with irritation when she saw she was standing there, watching her warily. "And you. Start stretching. We're done here until you learn you aren't a yak bumbling about in a pottery shop."

Insulted past patience, Lyra returned her glower before complying, bending over to touch her toes. She was thankful she was dressed in soft, flexible leather trousers, tall boots, and loose shirts that were designed to conceal weapons. Everything allowed for full range of motion in a way her dresses and corsets did not, though she had been told she would be learning how to move and defend herself in those again later on. Unfortunately, the freedom of movement her new wardrobe offered also meant that it was obvious when she wasn't performing to the best of her abilities. The ever watchful Crétin stalked over, leaning down to look Lyra in the eyes as she stretched.

"Does the stretch hurt, princess?" Before Lyra could respond, a rough hand pushed her down further, sending an arching burn up the backs of her legs. She bit her lip, repressing tears as Crétin held her there for long seconds before allowing her to stand normally again. The shorter woman scowled, gesturing sharply for her to do another stretch, the tentacles in her hair writhing to show her irritation. "How are you supposed to succeed if you can't even prevent yourself from half assing stretches meant to keep you limber? Pure and indolent laziness."

Tyrant, Lyra thought as she silently shifted from one stretch to another, this time fully pushing herself. Every muscle in her body ached from her riding lessons the day before. Oristin had been pushing her hard, teaching her how to ride astride, bareback, and sidesaddle. By the end of it, she had been grateful to sit before her loom with the politely amused Master Silkstrand. Cheeky Syvanel had tossed her a bottle of horse liniment the night before, the pungent salve doing wonders for her sore muscles. Unfortunately, the effect had only lasted the night, leaving her aching during her exercises with the unflagging contortionist. Crétin watched a moment and flicked one of her curls, unimpressed, before sinking into a full split before her. Syvanel whistled from where he stood cleaning muck off the dagger, earning a warning look from Crétin.

“Until you can do this, you’re useless to all of us.” She informed Lyra, leaning forward so her elbows rested on the damp ground. She picked up a few pine needles and tossed them at her face, deliberately making Lyra flinch. “Your boyfriend is going to love it.”

“No man.” Lyra gestured sharply before shifting into another deep stretch. Her leg muscles quivered with the effort, screaming at her even though she knew this exercise was for the best. It did not sit right with her that everyone referred to Alvenyr as her lover or boyfriend. They had made no such declarations themselves, though others seemed to take their closeness for granted. He was completely oblivious to the depth of her feelings for him, and she often found herself shying away from the thought of serious commitment herself. Night where she found herself unable to sleep gave her an ample opportunity to consider why she felt that way, and it always circled back to memories of Lanthon abusing her in their marriage. She knew in her heart that Alvenyr was not capable of such cruelty towards her, but she still found herself unwilling to give anyone that much control of her life again. Crétin’s laugh was cruel as she flipped herself into a tailor’s seat to better observe Lyra. 

“If you say so.” Her voice was a sultry croon, like moon touched satin sliding across smooth skin. Despite the purr of her words, there was power lurking beneath the surface. A careful person pays heed to her when she speaks, Oristin had warned her before they started training together. The contortionist braced her chin on a fist, watching Lyra stretch with an uncanny eye. "If you tell yourself the lie long enough, it is sure to become the truth. You can't fool us even if you're fooling yourself. Besides, I was a courtesan of Silvermoon. If anyone knows anything about attraction, it'd be me."

What little she knew of the odd woman before her finally settled into place. The almost completely unconscious way she seduced everyone around her finally made sense, as did her graceful mannerisms. She had merely thought it part of her act, but that sort of innate ability came from years of immersion and training in the lifestyles of courtly manners. Lyra’s estimation of her rose, even if she was irked by the way she treated her. Courtesan or not, she was wrong about her relationship with Alvenyr, though she wasn't in the position to say anything. Instead, she merely shook her head as Crétin rose, dusting pine needles off her clothes.

"The boyos didn't tell you? How thoughtful of them to keep my secrets. Regardless, you'll be able to ride more than just horses by the time I'm through with you." Syvanel choked on a mouthful of water, his coughing echoing across the clearing as Lyra continued her stretches. Crétin thumped him several times until he finally caught his breath and began roaring with laughter. Lyra lowered herself to the ground and winced when she caught sight of her dirty nails and skin, longing to soak the mud out of her pores in the hot spring that burbled nearby.

"No thanks." She signed to the pair, though they both pointedly ignored her in favor of one another. Syvanel snagged Crétin around the waist and placed a loud, smacking kiss on her cheek. The trio of elves had a close relationship, occasionally sneaking off with one another late at night for a few moments of privacy. Whatever they did while they were away was their own business, though the close affection they shared made her think they were committed to one another. It made her miss the casual, easy relationships she herself had with her loved ones and further solidified her loneliness as she trained. She missed Alvenyr so badly she ached, and worried often about if her prolonged absence and forced silence would harm their relationship. Certainly, he had disappeared often himself, but this was different.

"A finer courtesan never did grace the damp halls of the Underbelly of Dalaran," Syvanel announced as Crétin arched against him, languid as a cat. "A wise person pays her in advance, les they wake up without their ears." He glanced wickedly at Lyra, tapping his own half-missing ear. "You should ask to see her ear collection, weaver. It's a sight."

Alarmed, Lyra glanced at the contortionist, dreading confirmation. Crétin's grin was predatory as she sauntered over, pulling a long, thin blade from under her sleeve. Lyra froze when it was traced along the edge of her right ear, the whisper kiss of the blade sending the Void into fits in her mind. The seductive chuckle and light kiss Crétin pressed against her cheek as the blade was lowered to her throat made a flush rise in her face, her instinctive need to defend herself warring with a tiny tremor of fearful desire. It was the first time the woman had turned her seductive powers her way, though Lyra couldn't say she enjoyed the attention. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, focusing on controlling her emotions and physical reaction to the body that pressed itself against hers, not wanting to fail this latest test of her control. She had nearly succeeded when Crétin slid her arms around her, her lilting voice a soft whisper in her ear.

"You collect dangerous men," the rogue breathed so only she could hear it. "I collect ears. We all have our fun little hobbies now don't we, songbird?"

Insults and threats to herself Lyra could handle, but this she could not tolerate. The suggestion that Lyra collected men like objects brought her temper and the latent whispers roaring to the forefront of her consciousness. Insulted and pushed to her breaking point, she instinctively reached for the Void, her fingertips lengthening into razors of smoky crystal. The other woman hissed a warning, her knife snaking itself to her throat once again as violet energy coursed down the tentacles that hung around her face. A faint whisper of Void trickled from Lyra's hand, its violet smoke stilling just as she did when she realized the danger. Lyra blinked, horror filling her when she realized what she had done as she hastily twisted the powers back to the Void. Crétin had been pushing her, testing the limits of her anger and temper for over a week, and had finally managed to get under her skin enough to make her slip.

"Enough!" Crétin barked, her blade drawing a thin trickle of blood where it rested against Lyra's throat. The edge was so sharp that she hadn't even registered the cut until the collar of her shirt grew damp. "You reach for those powers again and we're all dead. Do you not know what lurks just beyond those mountain ridges, you empty headed idiot?" Her shouts brought the men running, each ready to strike her down in their own ways. "How do you expect to be of any use to us when you have the impulsiveness of a child? You'd bring the Corruptor down on all of us rather than get a handle on your temper!" Crétin's blue eyes narrowed as she hissed, drawing a new line of blood from Lyra's neck. "Do Rum and Raven know that they're your weakness? Because I doubt either of them will stand it long knowing you're a loose cannon."

"Crétin is right, Lyra." Syvanel said severely, scowling at her for the first time. Shame rose in her, hot and thick, when she realized she had endangered all of them. There was no stirring in the Void to show that she had drawn any attention to their hideaway, though she could see Crétin straining to sense anything, just as she did to be sure. "Get a handle on your temper. I don't want to die because you acted stupid."

"You were warned, weaver." Master Silkstrand's voice held a razor edge as he regarded her with disfavor. Shards of ice shimmered around him, each wickedly sharp point aimed directly at her heart, ready to fly. More continued to shimmer into being around him, the mists freezing around him as the Pandaren continued to glare at her. "You were warned not to toy with the Void while you were here."

"We would be well within our rights to kill you right now." Oristin added harshly, his green eyes hard. His hands rested lightly on the hilts of the Titan swords he had begun wearing since their arrival. Those blades held as deadly of a promise as the one held at her throat by the furious contortionist. "No more slip ups, Sinnlyra."

Swallowing, she shook her head, sending another rivulet of blood rolling down her throat. Losing her temper had been a costly mistake, one that nearly ended her life. All of her trainers watched her like hawks, their predatory stares making her shrink in on herself as she gestured her understanding for their anger.

"Do not let it happen again." Crétin hissed, finally withdrawing the blade once she saw Lyra's scar creep back under her hair. She stalked away, Syvanel hot on her heels as she headed toward one of the cliff edges. Master Silkstrand gestured, the deadly ice that surrounded him embedding itself in the dirt in a ring around Lyra, barely missing her. He, too, left, leaving her standing alone with Oristin in the clearing. He regarded her distastefully from where he stood at the top of the ramp, his fel green eyes boring into her.

"Be ready tonight," he finally before turning to go back inside. "You have another lesson to learn."

\------------

The rest of Lyra's day was spent in isolated silence, her companions pointedly ignoring her to reinforce their distaste and anger with her actions. The weight of their disapproval wore at her more than their verbal warnings had as she cleaned and bandaged the cuts at her throat. When the sun finally set during their silent dinner, Syvanel pointed toward the door with his pair of chopsticks, making it clear he expected Lyra to go outside and find Oristin without uttering a single word. When she laid aside her barely touched meal to comply, Crétin tossed her a thick woolen coat and gloves, not looking at her. Silently, she put them on before stepping outside, knowing the mountain nights could get cold. The sight that met her eyes was an unexpected one, making her blink with surprise. Oristin stood in a ring of torches before two cloud serpents, their hot breath steaming where they undulated in the darkness. Lyra shivered at the sight of the mighty beasts and the man who stood beside them in the firelight, his eyes almost demonic with anger.

"Mount up." The cloud serpent beside Oristin hissed at his angered tone, its blue scales blending in almost perfectly with the coming darkness. He patted its sinuous form, calming it as she tentatively approached, unsure of why she was expected to get on the massive creature. She had seen cloud serpents before, but at a distance. The creature snorted, its eyes blinking slowly as it watched her approach, its lips curling back in a low snarl away from a set of rather impressive fangs. Small wonder the Pandaren use them in battle, she thought as she tried to calm her fears.

"Where?" Lyra signed to Oristin, but was ignored. "Don't fly." She signed again, worried that she would be expected to control the cloud serpent with no experience. Master Silkstrand had made it clear that they were loyal creatures that only tolerated their chosen partners to ride them, the bond of trust taking years to build as they grew. Oristin glared at her, angered by her stalling, the cloud serpent echoing his impatience with her as it growled again.

"Doesn't matter, mount up."

His words were harsh as he slapped the saddle on the back of the serpent. A faint movement to her left drew her attention to the second serpent, its green form curling around a torch. A grey furred Pandaren swathed in warm woolen garments much like her own peered down at her over the edge of his black and grey scarf, silently waiting for her to comply. A pair of battered polearms hung from his saddle, their tips shining in the scant light with deadly promise. Lyra awkwardly clambered aboard the saddle, not surprised when Oris pulled himself up behind her. Their silent Pandaren companion pumped his fist in the air twice, the signal to fly. Lyra felt it as Oristin nudged their mount, sending it into the air. She had flown before, but the sinuous rise and fall of the cloud serpent was a different sensation entirely. Soon, the torches that ringed their mountain clearing were faint dots in the darkness as they ascended to the heavens, the clouds and mist obscuring them from sight in moments.

They flew in silence, his chest a muscled bulwark behind her as he handled the reins. She was grateful for his closeness and the warmth he provided, the damp chill of the night making her shiver despite the warm clothing she wore. Oristin ignored her, silently directing the serpent to fly higher into a bank of clouds. They were blinded for long moments by the mist and the darkness, the thick air adding to her growing sense of claustrophobia. Lyra gasped when they broke through the top layer of clouds, seeing the two moons that hung in Azeroth’s sky clearly for the first time since her arrival in Pandaria. The larger of the two, the White Lady, illuminated the night sky with brilliance, though the Blue Child still hung low on the horizon, barely seen over the edge of the cloud cover. Oristin thumped the cloud serpent with a booted heel, sending its sinuous form snaking over the peaks and valleys below them. The other serpent followed, the pair’s soft growls and the hiss of the wind the only sound as they flew through the star studded sky.

They flew for nearly an hour before Lyra realized something was wrong. An uncomfortable sensation at the back of her mind sharpened her attention to what lay below them. Even had she not guessed their destination, the increased volume of the whispers at the back of her mind would have told her that they were headed toward the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. She leaned to the side and peered down toward the ridge they passed over, disturbed to see Void smoke rising toward the heavens. Corruption lay in thick swaths below them, a discordant song that warred with the harmonious chimes of her own. Whatever Void corruption this was, it grated against whatever entity had twisted her. Angry violet, black, red, and orange lights winked below them, chilling her when she realized that they were massive eyes peering across the land. Monoliths and wandering creatures below added to the malevolent scene, sending her heart racing. She felt Oristin take a breath behind her and sat up, her ears pricking to catch his words.

“Normally, you would be seeing the golden glow of the Vale below us.” Oris's words were harsh, giving them weight so they felt like blows when they landed. “Instead, the Dark Forces have been trying to reclaim it, and so it is corrupted. Tainted. By your kind of magic.”

There was nothing she could say to make it better. She stayed still, mutely watching the horror unfolding before her. Through the breaks in the clouds she could see N'zoth's forces infesting the valley. Tentacles undulated from their perches while the eyes grew across every surface. She trusted that they were concealed enough that they would not be spotted, but quailed when she saw a giant worm approaching from a distance. It was ten times larger than the serpent they rode, its form darkening the moon glow as it passed between it and the White Lady. Malevolence silently radiated from the lands below, the ever present and weighted gaze of N’zoth spreading across what was once pure and good. She could feel the tortured screams of the land as it suffered, its own plight mirroring her own each and every time the Void threatened to overwhelm her body.

“Every time you reach for your powers, you risk bringing this horror down on us all.” Oris hissed, his voice sounding just as angry as the whispers in her mind. “Each time you slip, His eyes draw closer to our safe place. Our haven. Each time, people's lives are put at stake because you cannot learn to curb your impulsiveness. I can understand wanting to keep your friends safe. Hell, I've killed to keep mine protected myself. But if you can't get that side of yourself under control, you'll doom us all. If it were up to me, I'd shove you off this serpent right now and be done with it, but I've been told to give you another chance. Consider yourself warned. Next time, you'll be dead.”

She felt his anger and accepted it. She could hear the raucous calling of the Void below, it's undulating, slick temptation heavy on her mind. It would be easy to give in to the whispers, to go to that brilliantly cold state of being where she could do anything, including murder. Oris knew it too, and watched her.

“Cretin's mind is a bear trap compared to your rabbit snare when it comes to being provoked.” He muttered, turning the serpent away. “She will teach you. She has been trying to teach you control, but it appears you need more. You let your emotions get the best of you, and instead of curbing it, you lash out. Small wonder Lightsworn didn’t stand a chance against you.” He chuckled darkly when he felt her stiffen against him. “Your body language and that scar of yours is a dead giveaway. You killed him, and that’s why you’re hunted. We’ll keep pushing you to your extreme until you can hide your emotions with the best of them. Our mutual survival depends on it.”

They flew in silence the rest of the way back to their mountain, Lyra turning his words over in her mind as the whispers calmed after their brief exposure to the Old God corruption below them. When they landed, Oristin helped her down, giving her a gentle shove toward the building so he could talk to their silent companion. Lyra gave the serpent an affectionate pat out of habit before heading in, considering everything she had seen that night.

She would do better, she vowed silently as she hung the damp coat from a hook near the door. Her love and loyalty to her friends would not be her downfall. Syvanel looked up from where he lounged before the fire and gave her a familiar wicked grin as rubbed oil onto Flicker’s wings to keep them soft. Crétin and Master Silkstrand merely acknowledged her with brisk nods before turning back to their conversation about the advantages and disadvantages of swords versus daggers. Lyra settled beside Syvanel and held out her hand, accepting a small dash of oil from the bottle he held, rubbing it into her hands to help keep them soft.

“You’ll do alright.” Syvanel’s murmur was full of humored understanding. Flicker croaked his agreement, his wings fluttering gently back and forth to dry the oil that coated them. “Just gotta keep things in perspective is all.” Lyra nodded, watching Oristin slip inside and hang his coat beside her own. Crétin broke off from her conversation and approached him, stroking his arm with more understanding than she had ever given Lyra. The pair turned and looked at Syvanel, who chuckled and handed Lyra Flicker and the bottle of oil. The creature snuggled against her chest as she took over oiling him, watching the trio head outside together, disappearing into the darkness with their arms around one another. Master Silkstrand rose with a grunt, still ignoring her though she knew he would be attentive as ever tomorrow during her lessons. A wave of his hand dimmed most of the lanterns in the room as he wrapped himself up in his bedroll beside the fire. Lyra stayed in the darkness for a long while, taking comfort in the closeness of the tiny fairy dragon in her arms as she mulled over the lessons she had learned that day.

\------------

Going about her days in complete silence was a new experience for her, though she found that Crétin had been correct when she said she would learn the codes easily with full immersion. Her vocabulary in sign language and written code grew by leaps and bounds, even if she struggled with certain aspects of silk weaving that Master Silkstrand patiently taught her. It required an entirely different way of thinking compared to the other forms she was learning, though she did her best to pick it up just as quickly. Each slub in the weave, every different color and shape they could take held deeply complex meanings that required a great deal of concentration, knowledge, and skill to get just right so the message wouldn’t be a jumbled mess. It gave her a greater appreciation for the Pandaren who had come up with the codes in the first place.

“The difficulty with this type of weaving is you are effectively writing the code backwards and upside down.” Master Silkstrand explained after she had made a snarled mess of the loom once again. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes as she moved to untangle it again, making the Pandaren tilt her chin toward his face with a soft paw. “You are doing fine, weaver. You have grasped much of this despite not being raised with it. Now, show me where it went wrong.”

Lyra inspected the snarled mess before her and narrowed her eyes, considering the pattern in the weave. It took her a moment to locate where she had accidentally double knotted the fine thread to create the coded line for “assassins” but as soon as she did she felt a flash of irritation at herself for the simple mistake. Silently, she pointed to it, and gestured the corresponding word. Master Silkstrand leaned forward, tipping a paw that glowed with a heatless arcane flame toward it to look.

“Yes. You lost track of the pattern there, and also here. When you used three stands instead of two to make the line it tangled it further. Good catch.” He chuckled to himself as he watched her begin unraveling the snarl. Even had she not been forced into silence, her frustration would have choked any words she tried to say. The ochre threads in her hands mercifully came apart relatively well despite the mishap. “Do you know why we chose this method to communicate, little weaver?”

Mutely, she shook her head, though her ears pricked toward him with interest even as her hands worked. His rich bass voice settled into the cadence of a storyteller even as he explained the most basic information and techniques to her, making it easier for lessons to stick. 

“Traditionally, fabrics that contained slubs and imperfections were viewed as being defective and of poor quality, not suitable for the “masters”. They demanded perfection, because they were perfect in their own eyes. My ancestors, the ancient weavers, began realizing that they could pass messages this way because the slavers would only accept the finest fabrics from their hands. When they began to stifle our language and writing, they began teaching others how to write messages using those very imperfections. Soon, our people were able to communicate even without the written word. The monks saw use for this when they began training our people to fight back. Never underestimate the potential of the seemingly unimportant things in life.” 

“My people were enslaved for generations under the mogu. We struggled to hold on to our traditions, our language, and our stories. They burned our art, literature, and forbade us from speaking anything but the mogu tongue. Much was lost, despite their best efforts. The weavings helped us save parts of our culture, as did the stories told by our Lorespeakers. Much that we know comes from the bravery and cleverness of those who came before us.” Lyra nodded reverently, considering the information he gave her. She listened, fascinated, as he explained once again how knotting and twisting thread and yarn in different places could be used to create codes. He pointed out how they could be created both in the warp and weft, his thick fingers deft among the delicate threads.

The Pandaren people had suffered much under the mogu, and the full weight of their trials and tribulations was nothing she would ever be able to fully comprehend. Though her own people had been decimated by Arthas and Silvermoon, she hadn’t felt the effects rippling through the world until the loss of the Sunwell. Even then, the loss had been negligible thanks to the massive amount of arcane power that coursed through every inch of Dalaran. Most of her life had been spent among other high elves and humans, first with her parents and then in isolation because of her fear of Lanthon’s anger and reprisal. Truth be told, she thought as she continued to weave, listening intently to the man beside her, I’ve been rather sheltered away from my own heritage up until this point. I don’t have this same sort of connection to my people as the Pandaren have to one another and their history. It was a startling realization, one that made her feel uneasy.

Perhaps that’s why I leapt at the chance to form a family around myself, she thought miserably as she spun another knot into the weft of the bolt of silk that grew under her attentive fingers. Maybe that’s why I feel no allegiance to anyone but my friends. I’ve never had that sense of belonging like this. A gentle rap on her knuckles from the Master by her side made her realize her thoughts had strayed too far away from her work, setting herself up for another failure.

“Another thing about the Pandaren is that we live in the moment.” Master Silkstrand chuckled when she closed her eyes and sighed silently at her inattention. “Every project demands our full attention until it is finished. A trait you typically share with us, or so I am told.” When she nodded ruefully, thinking of all the times she had focused too closely on a project and missed meals or sleep because of it, he smiled. “That is enough for the day. You’re clearly waiting on the turtle.” When she began signing her apologies, he grabbed both of her hands, silencing her. “Little weaver, you have earned a break. Go get your sketchbook and clear your head.” 

He stood and groaned when several joints cracked when he stretched. Lyra bit her lip, concerned for the older man, but obediently laid aside the tools of her trade. He caught her look and shook his head, performing a set of exercises to keep his hands limber. She did the same, looking around for her other instructors. Flicker was curled up on a cushion before the crackling wood stove, his bright wings draped around his body like a multicolored blanket as he napped. Faint sounds of conversation met her ears, telling her the others were outside, though Master Silkstrand appeared to be planning on taking a page out of Flicker’s book. She grabbed what she needed and slid out the door, sliding it shut firmly behind her to keep the chill from getting to the pair. The misty air was cool on her cheeks after so long inside the cozy building, making her shiver slightly as she donned her coat. The boiled wool coat she wore was a welcome addition to her new wardrobe, its water repelling properties welcome in the mists of the mountain top.

Oristin glanced up at her where he sat on a couple of bales of hay, flicking her a two fingered salute when she made her way over to join him. Lyra watched Syvanel cluck to a horse that trotted placidly in a circle around him at the end of a lunge line, an odd contraption on its back looking like a modified saddle full of straps and various handholds. Crétin stood beside him, stretching to limber herself up, to what purpose Lyra couldn’t guess. She said something to Van, who nodded and clucked to the horse, urging it into a collected canter. Crétin ran lightly beside the horse, finally grabbing onto one of the holds and springing onto it’s back, her movements perfectly in sync with the large animal. 

Lyra lowered herself down beside Oristin, completely fascinated. Crétin performed a series of dance poses, each other fluidly morphing into another in time with the horse’s movements. Her face was calm and collected, the first time she had appeared at peace since their arrival in Pandaria. She balanced a moment on the horse’s back before leaping, landing lightly on its rump and rolling towards its neck, performing a handstand for a long while. It was completely enthralling, one of the most beautiful things Lyra had ever seen.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Oristin elbowed her, his grin making her realize she had been gaping like a country bumpkin in Stormwind for the first time. “It’s called vaulting. Crétin doesn’t do it much anymore, but it's always a real treat when she performs. She must be really bored or frustrated to be picking it up again.” Lyra flushed, thinking of her continued failures with all of her instructors. Crétin had been especially hard on her as struggled to learn self defense. 

“My fault,” she signed to him, though she kept her eye on Crétin’s performance. Syvanel flicked the lunge line at the horse, encouraging it to keep its pace as the contortionist flipped on and off its back, her feet barely touching the ground before she was up again. “Bad student.” 

Oristin chuckled, crossing his arms as they watched the woman twist herself so she hung off its side by one leg, her hands skimming the ground. Soon, she slipped back into a handstand, lowering herself slowly in time with the cantering. Crétin balanced with just her hips on the horse’s rump before flipping off of its back, landing with an exaggerated flourish. Syvanel called something suggestive to her as he slowed the horse to a walk, making her laugh merrily when she joined him.

“You’ve picked up most of the code we’ve taught you rather quickly considering you’ve only been here for a few weeks. You know most of the hand signs well enough that we’ve been tossing you advanced words and phrases. So you’re struggling with weaving and the physical stuff. If you didn’t, you’d be a more uncanny woman than you are now.” She pulled a face at him turning back to watching as Crétin took hold of the lunge line, urging the horse into a brisk canter. Syvanel stretched and pulled off his shirt, revealing the tattered mess of scars that lined his lanky form. He ran lightly out to the horse and matched its faster pace, his longer legs eating up the ground before he pulled himself up onto its back with more strength than grace. Crétin called to the horse, sending it into a slow gallop as he hung from one arm and a leg off its side, holding the pose for a long moment before flipping to the other side using just his arms. Lyra gasped when he climbed under the horse, risking getting hit with its flashing hooves before performing a series of flips over the back of the saddle. It was more powerful and fast paced than Crétin’s light performance, but no less impressive. Oristin watched Lyra’s completely unguarded reactions, his normally impassive face lit with the soft glow of amusement. 

“I can see why they’re so enamored with you.” Startled by his words, Lyra looked up at him, giving him a look of polite confusion. He leaned back on the hay bales behind them, keeping one eye on her as he twisted a few strands of hay together. Syvanel whooped as he flipped and turned on the back of the horse, sending the goats that surrounded the clearing scattering in all directions.

“Who?” She signed when he glanced back at Syvanel, who did a handspring off the horse’s back. Crétin crooned to the creature, slowing it to a walk and letting it cool off. It’s sides heaved, though it pranced as Syvanel patted its neck affectionately. 

“Rum and Raven. Even that demon hunter.” When she blushed, he gave her a sly smile. “You look at a man with those big doe eyes of yours and suddenly he feels compelled to lay the world’s riches at your feet. You’d do well as an agent if you ever chose that life.”

“Not me.” Lyra’s hands were quick with a response, though she could do nothing to cool the blush from her cheeks over the compliment. “Passing information only.” They had discussed that option with her before, though it wasn’t something she wanted to consider. She could do more good listening to gossip from her clients and passing it along than infiltrating their lives at the highest level, deliberately ferreting out information. Acting as a full time agent would also take her away from her passion and she was loath to give up her business in favor of spying. They had mentioned several well-placed nobles in the Alliance that had expressed an interest in Lyra since she had met them, which added another layer of discomfort to her polite refusals. Their thinly veiled propositions had set her on edge, making her refuse their custom and offers of security to be their “personal” tailor. Crétin had been extremely frank in how she could use their interest in her to influence them and obtain more information about their enterprises.

“People spill a lot more than they intend during pillow talk,” the contortionist had said brusquely over dinner one night. “You can learn more about a person’s life after sex than you can from eavesdropping most of the time. People want to impress you, so they tell more than they ought. Then you give them a good ride and suddenly they’re willing to do anything for you.” 

Oristin shrugged, pulling several more pieces of hay from the bale and braiding them together. There was a bruise on his forearm from where Crétin had roughly disarmed him earlier. His large hands were oddly deft as he formed a bracelet from the hay, flicking it at her when he finished it. 

“Just something to consider. Many of our agents do well when placed in higher households. Your scar might make it difficult, but some folk find that exotic.” Bristling, Lyra flicked the bracelet back, not liking where the conversation was headed. Selling her body for information touched too closely to memories she would much rather forget. He caught the bracelet and offered it to a goat that wandered by, his green eyes sparkling when it ate it without a care. He was needling her, trying to get her to lose control, though he wasn’t as good at it as Crétin. “Don’t be touchy, some folks are into that sort of thing. You seem to be into it yourself, given who you’ve been seeing.”

“Rude.” Lyra signed curtly, rising from the bales. The constant testing of her control on top of her failing to grasp the code weaving suddenly caught up with her, sharpening her temper. All at once, she didn’t care if she failed one of their tests. All she wanted was a few moments to herself so she could be alone to sort through everything and get her head on straight again. She flashed her sketchbook and pencils at him before he could ask her where she was going and stalked toward one of the rocky outcroppings that hid roughly hewn stairs that led to nowhere. Master Silkstrand had called it Mason’s Folly, laughing that one of his ancestors had seen fit to build a stairway to nowhere, though Lyra found it a peaceful place to relax when she was allowed a few moments to herself. Crétin and Syvanel watched her go before turning to Oristin, asking him what he had done to make her lose her temper.

She clambered up the stairs, already noticing a difference in how easily she was able to get up the steep incline compared to when she had first arrived. Her breath still came in short pants by the time she made it to the top of the long stair, but she at least had been able to make the trek in one go instead of needing a break. Slowly, she calmed her breathing, feeling her heartbeat respond to the deep, even breaths she took as she stared out across the cliffs. A rare break in the clouds warmed her, burning off the fog temporarily to allow her a glimpse of the Jade Forest below. The deep, verdant green of the lush forest below gave her an idea for a layered gown in the same shades.

“Structured top, flowing skirt,” she mouthed to herself as she settled with her back to the low wall that had been built there, pulling several pencils out and laying them aside. She hadn’t been given much time to sketch out her ideas, so she planned to take a good, long while to unwind. Grimly, she began roughing out the idea for the gown as she considered all she had been learning for the Uncrowned.

There were lessons within the lessons with her trainers. Even something as straightforward as an herb and poison identification lesson with Flicker held nuance and subtle warnings. Master Silkstrand’s lessons were packed with the history of his people, weaving techniques she had only heard of in passing, and anecdotes meant to make her question her own life. She scribbled in a sleeve, frowning fiercely when the tip of her pencil snapped off. Grimly, she reached for the small belt knife to sharpen it, unhappy with herself. 

She truly had lived very little life, with minimal connections to her people and their stories up until this point. What she knew of her people’s heritage and culture was gleaned from books and scrolls more than real life experience. Her parents had both been homebodies, their social circle extremely small and mostly composed of scholars that were as shy as they. All three of them had been invested in their work more than climbing the social ladders with their peers. When Lyra’s mother had fallen ill, they had dropped most of their connections, choosing instead to turn inward to their own family to enjoy what little time they had left with her. Lyra had never regretted that decision until now, acutely aware that she would never be able to connect with her people’s heritage because of the impulsive choice she had made to turn to the Void. Alleria Windrunner had ensured that no ren’dorei would ever be welcome in Silvermoon to see the new Sunwell. Not even someone as neutral in their political leanings as Lyra would be welcome there, not while she was a conduit for forces that sought to corrupt the font of Light and arcane. The tip of her pencil sharpened, she began sketching again, considering her childhood.

She had been a shy, withdrawn child. It made her the target for bullies who had sought someone weaker and smaller than themselves to pick on. It wasn’t until Lanthon decided to take her under his wing that she had truly felt anything akin to friendship. Even then, she had been more of a follower than a friend, grateful that the majority of the bullying had finally stopped because of her larger, more boisterous protector. In reality she had just exchanged one bully for another, her desperation to make a friend, any friend blinding her to his own unique brand of abuse. That trend had continued in their unfortunate marriage, where he had further isolated her with his growing paranoia and insistence that she stay at home and raise their son. After his family was wiped out entirely in Silvermoon, his extremist views and abuse had grown. Her hand jerked when her mind touched on that particular unpleasantness, making her erase the line while her hands began to tremble.

“You know, you should calm down. Don’t want to create a Sha for yourself.” Syvanel’s lazy drawl broke through her thoughts, making her jump. How a man that large could be so sneaky never failed to amaze her. He crouched on top of the wall above her, grinning around a piece of hay sticking out from his lips. Blinking, he looked at the dress she had designed and bounced a little on his heels. “That’s pretty. Don’t know much about art and stuff myself, but it looks nice.”

“Thanks.” She signed after laying her pencil in the crease of her sketchbook, patting the ground beside her. Of all of her trainers, Flicker and Van were the two whose company she had come to enjoy the most. Despite his clumsy and obvious attempts at flirting, his good nature and kind demeanor was endearing. He hopped down and stretched out beside her, respecting her space for once instead of trying to cozy up to her. It made her pause a moment before continuing with the sketch, though he ignored her look in favor of tucking his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. Although his race was more comfortable in the darkness, he seemed to enjoy the rare bouts of sunlight they received when it peeked through mists.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just here to make sure you’re safe.” He muttered around his piece of hay, shifting it from one side of his mouth to the other. “The others are back at the hooch, so you can go on sketching and bein’ mad if you want.” His gold eye opened slightly to look at her when he heard her huff, making him grin. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Crétin you were making Shas for yourself up here. She’d flip. Gotta give you credit, though. Your scar didn’t budge an inch this time.”

“Won’t lose control. Too much risk.” Lyra flicked her fingers at him. He shrugged, settling into a more comfortable position before spitting the piece of hay out over the side of the cliff. Lyra watched it drift to the stream below, wondering why she always sought out heights when she needed comfort. With a pang, she realized it was because of Alvenyr, her heart aching when she realized just how much she missed him. Mercifully, Syvanel had his eyes closed again, the sunlight adding a hint of silver around the edges of his lilac hair.

“You know, even if you did I wouldn’t blame you. Lot to take in with all this training stuff.” He said, scratching his chest with one scarred hand. “I remember when I first started out with all this shit. Couldn’t make head nor tails of most of it at first, but I settled in alright after a bit. Helped my moms taught me a lot of it beforehand, and my sib, too.” Lyra tapped his arm, getting him to open his eyes for a moment so he could see what she signed. 

“Oh yeah, I’ve two mothers. Adopted, actually. See, my blood kin didn’t like me much so I ran off. Got beat up real bad by a couple of unfriendly satyrs along the way and stumbled into a lumber camp half dead and all sorts of messed up. Was just a kid, really, but one of the lumberjacks took a liking to me. She brought me home, cleaned me up, introduced me to her wife and kid. They adopted me practically on the spot.” He chuckled, shifting his head so it rested more on his bun like a pillow. “They taught me all I need to know about life, though it wasn’t a popular decision for two orcs to adopt a night elf. We booked it, lived wild until my sib and I started getting itchy feet. You might meet Tomi eventually, they’re a good one.”

It seemed almost like a tall tale, but even the most outlandish stories often had a grain of truth to them to make them believable. It certainly did explain Syvanel’s scarring, damaged eye, tapestry of scars, and half missing ear, though the thought of a family of orcs adopting a child of the enemy seemed a bit of a stretch. Lyra smiled as she turned back to her sketch, adding a few layers shaped like leaves to the draping skirt. The large man stayed silent for a long moment, seemingly drifting off into a nap while she drew. She should have known better when he finally decided to speak again.

"So, you gonna tell me why you get so upset whenever someone suggests you sleep around for information?" Syvanel's voice was as placid and calm as before, but the question made her hand jerk and smear the leaf she had been sketching. His expression was mildly neutral when she turned to stare at him. Of all of them, she hadn’t expected him to be perceptive enough to pick up on her discomfort, let alone be the one to confront her about it. "Somethin' happened to you that makes you quick to get defensive. Spill the beans, weaver."

"No business." She signed, but he grabbed her hands and shook his head severely at her. The bumpy ridges of the scars and calluses on his palms were rough against the back of her hands, but he held them gently, shaking them a little from side to side to emphasize his point.

"What's said here stays between yous and mes, the wind and the trees." Kindness suffused his entire being, warming her. His faded red shirt rippled a little as a breeze found them, a few strands of his hair flipping into his face. Of all of them, she thought, he seemed to be the one that would listen and possibly understand her reluctance. There was an earnest honesty about him that the others seemed to lack. Maybe it was because he was younger than all of them, not as jaded by life and its cruel realities yet. That alone made her cautiously nod, swearing silently to herself when she realized she had left her chalkboard back at the warehouse. He reached over and grabbed her sketchbook, flipping to the very last page. "Write it out. Doubt you have the words for it yet."

She hesitated a moment, staring at the creamy white page, dredging up memories she had hoped to leave in the Rift. Not memories of her previous life, but ones that came soon after her awakening. Syvanel waited patiently for her response, as if he had all the time in the world. Perhaps he did, she thought while she spun her pencil between her fingers. He seemed the type to lazily wait for the rest of the world to shape itself to his liking. Slowly, she began to write, hating herself and the choices she made all over again as letters formed shaky words across the page.

"When I woke in the Rift, I had no money. Nothing but my name and some sewing supplies. The charity of the others lasted only so long before it wore thin. I was vulnerable, and others sought to take advantage of that in as many ways possible."

Her hands shook as she showed him the page, hoping he would understand what she was inferring. His eyes flicked across the words before setting on hers as he slowly nodded, leaning back against the wall. Lyra looked down, feeling ashamed of the choices that enabled her survival, hating that she had no other option but to stoop that low. There had been only so much mending to be done, only so many small enchantments she could do before there was nothing left for her to earn her way. The several times she had taken up others on their offers for companionship had been more profitable than the weeks of toil she had done during her recovery and training as a warlock. A hawk screamed overhead, giving voice to the anger and embarrassment she felt from her confession.

"Nothing wrong with working the sex trade. Some of my best friends are prostitutes." Lyra couldn't bear the gentle understanding that wreathed his voice. Syvanel’s face went solemn when he looked at her again. "Did anyone force you?" She shook her head, choking on a lump in her throat. "That's good. Still not something you're comfortable with though."

"I did what I had to in order to survive." She wrote, her hands still unsteady. The hawk screamed again before sliding onto another thermal that rose from the forest below. "It allowed me to buy material for the dresses I made that helped me launch my business. For that, I am grateful. But I do not wish to sell myself again, not even for the Uncrowned." 

He nodded again, scratching his chin before closing her sketchbook on the page. Together, they watched the hawk silently dive, its claws extended as it chased after some unseen prey on the cliffs below. When it rose again, it held a dead hare in its talons. It laboriously flapped until it gained altitude again, gliding toward a distant nest that rested on the craggy peaks that surrounded them. How absolutely fitting, Lyra thought bitterly. Predators did what they needed to in order to survive without a second thought, regardless of how it affected their prey.

"Makes sense why you aren't so receptive to my flirting, then. Sorry if it made you uncomfortable at all." Syvanel sounded regretful for a moment, but gave her a cheeky grin when she signed that she didn’t mind. He patted her hair like she was a small child, ruffling it to startle a silent laugh from her. "Your secret is safe with me. I'll tell the others to back off. They'll listen to me, dumb as I am. Rum and Raven know?" She nodded, then shook her head in turn having revealed that particular detail of her past to Tyr. It was likely he had mentioned it to Sev, but he could be oddly closed mouthed about things that mattered. Syvanel's eyes narrowed slightly when he considered that.

"The demon hunter know?" Miserably, Lyra shook her head again. It wasn't something she had told Alvenyr about yet. Part of her feared his response, though it was unlikely he'd judge her too harshly for it. In truth, she didn't know how he would react, and that was enough to make her unwilling to reveal it to him. The rogue beside her covered her hands with his own a moment, squeezing them. There was brotherly affection there more than his flirt’s air, the shift coming naturally to him.

"Thank you for trusting me. Burn that page when you get the chance later. For now, let's just enjoy the rest of our day like the pair of old achy bones we are, huh?" When she nodded, giving him a shy smile, he tapped her nose affectionately. His mischief faded a moment when he added, "Don't worry, you're not the only one with skeletons in their closet. You’re in good company with the rest of us sinners."

From there he launched into a story about his own rogue training as if the previous conversation had never happened at all. Lyra slowly relaxed, opened the book back to the drawing she had been working on as she listened to his tales. Her hands still shook from the nerves, but she found herself appreciating the oddly exuberant man beside her. For all his joking about being dumb, he was more intelligent than he let on. Emotional intelligence, she thought as she colored in the skirt of the dress with varying shades of green. Not intellect, but an understanding of what the heart needs. If anything, his stories at least put her in a better frame of mind while she drew. They stayed together until she finished it just as the sun dipped behind the mountain, plunging their perch in darkness. He tapped her arm with his elbow, signaling that they should return.

“Thanks.” She signed as he helped her up. It surprised her a moment when he wrapped her in a brief hug, an oddly floral scent of herbs and a faint hint of dragon enveloping her much like his arms. He laughed at her startled expression and slung a careless arm around her, using his superior night vision to guide them safely back home. Until that moment, she hadn't realized just how much she had been missing the casual affection she shared with others and relaxed against him, grateful to have a connection with someone again even if it was brief. She wouldn't have welcomed his touch before their talk, but now she knew it was offered simply out of a sense of understanding and friendliness.

“You seemed a bit lonely and frustrated. We’ve all been there. Glad I could brighten your day with my charmin’ smile and winning personality.” She punched his arm lightly, making him shove her roughly back, a comrade to comrade. There was no hint of his flirtation like before, and it was a welcome change. “You’re doing alright, weaver. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Van! Get your ass in here, I’m starving!” Crétin bellowed from the open doorway when they finally came into view, her lithe form lit from behind by the lanterns that hung throughout the warehouse. “And tell little miss priss she’d better not run off again!” Lyra and Syvanel exchanged glances, hers rueful, his amused as they made their way up the ramp to find their waiting dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: Lyra's reflection on and discussion of working in the sex trade are in no way meant to be taken as commentary on said subject. It is merely a reflection of how she, the character, felt about her experiences.


End file.
